So far this year, I have heroically failed to get reservations for dinner at Sushi Tetsu, Chiltern Firehouse, Bocca di Lupo and several more of London's most sought-after restaurants. When in New York, I attempted to get a seat at Sushi Nakazawa – they neither returned my calls nor answered my emails. (At the time, I imagined them sniggering as the next impassioned plea came in.) Even so, the idea of paying to secure an "impossible" restaurant booking is absolute anathema to me. But a new breed of app is offering us the opportunity to do just that.

With the behemoth of the reservations sites, OpenTable, the restaurants pay for the reservation service themselves. But for the would-be hot ticket-scorer, it's worse than useless. I have long suspected that some of the more savvy operators manipulate availability in any case – I have seen the hallowed 7-9pm spots appear to be booked out for weeks in advance only to finally turn up to a room that's far from full. Which is why I, in true Luddite fashion, usually use the phone. But these next-generation apps – the likes of Resy and queue-jumping Shout are causing real heat in the US – aren't charging the restaurants, they are charging us, the diners.

Who, apart from people who brandish ostentatious watches or "statement" bags or spend their free time restaurant box-ticking, is going to welcome this? The sell is the promised democratisation of a notoriously exclusive system: I have experienced it first-hand, calling and being rejected under an alias, and then getting a warm welcome and prime-time table when I phone back with the name of a well-known pal (yes, Hix, I am looking at you). But paying before you even glance at the menu simply provides yet another barrier to entry. Of course, for the restaurateur, it not only provides another potential revenue stream, but delivers a degree of protection for one of their biggest revenue-chomping bugbears (and the reason why so many new restaurants are going down the "no reservations" route): the no-show. If you have already shelled out, you are far less likely to renege on your booking. With other forms of entertainment already in thrall to various intermediaries and scalpers, the only wonder is that it has taken so long: ker-ching and win-win for the restaurant. The only person to lose out is, of course, us the customers.

Yes, people once reacted furiously to airlines charging for items that previously came as part of the package, like luggage. But now we all pay up with miserable resignation. I hope we don't end up feeling like that for pay-for-play bookings but it looks depressingly inevitable: rumour is buzzing that the people behind Uber, the controversial taxi service, are about to launch their reservation app, Reserve, in the autumn. OK, I'll 'fess up: the sad truth is that if I could have paid a (reasonable) premium for a stool at the sushi counter at New York's Nakazawa, I probably would have, but that's because over there I'm that most curious of creatures, the gastrotourist with a limited window of opportunity. (For the record, that particular restaurant's owners are on record as total app refuseniks. Good on them.) But on my own turf, no chance.

Who needs it? There are always other restaurants happy to give me a seat without my having to grease up a virtual tout or rely on bots and algorithms. I'm brave enough to brazen out a walk-in, and, if it's an option, happy to eat at the bar. I'm comfortable with eating off-peak (a 6.30pm dinner can lead to the most civilised of early nights). Coughing up to see-and-be-seen is the trashiest form of elitism. Plus, if everyone else in the place is the sort of person happy to pay through the nose just to be at the "hottest" tables, chances are I wouldn't be enjoying the company much anyway.